Tài liệu The Chronicles of a Gay Gordon ppt

CHAPTER<p> 1.

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

1

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

Chronicles of a Gay Gordon, by José Maria Gordon

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Title: The Chronicles of a Gay Gordon

Author: José Maria Gordon

Release Date: November 29, 2008 [EBook #27362]

Language: English

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The Chronicles of a Gay Gordon By

Brig.-General J. M. Gordon, C.B.

With Eleven Half-tone Illustrations

Cassell and Company, Limited, London New York, Toronto and Melbourne 1921

[Illustration: Photo: Lafayette, Ltd., Glasgow.]

CONTENTS

PAGE

By Way of Introduction 1

Genealogical Table 7

Chronicles of a Gay Gordon, by José Maria Gordon 2

Part I

Chronicles of a Gay Gordon, by José Maria Gordon

3

CHAPTER

1.

My Scots-Spanish Origin 11

2. My Schooling 20

3. A Frontier Incident 30

4. First War Experience 35

5. My Meetings with King Alfonso 42

6. With Don Carlos Again 46

7. My First Engagement 53

8. Soldiering in Ireland 62

9. Unruly Times in Ireland 71

10. Sport in Ireland 77

11. A Voyage to New Zealand 87

12. A Maori Meeting 98

13. An Offer from the Governor of Tasmania 104

14. I Become a Newspaper Proprietor 109

15. A Merchant, then an Actor 120

16. As Policeman in Adelaide 132

Military Appointments and Promotions 147

Part II

1. Soldiering in South Australia 151

2. Polo, Hunting and Steeplechasing 162

3. The Russian Scare and its Results 175

4. The Soudan Contingent 185

5. A Time of Retrenchment 192

6. My Vision Fulfilled 200

CHAPTER 4

7. The Great Strikes 209

8. The Introduction of "Universal Service," and Two Voyages Home 215

9. Military Adviser to the Australian Colonies in London 224

10. Off to the South African War 232

11. With Lord Roberts in South Africa 238

12. In Command of a Mounted Column 244

13. Some South African Reminiscences 252

Part III

1. Organizing the Commonwealth of Australia 263

2. Commandant of Victoria 273

3. Commandant of New South Wales 281

4. Lord Kitchener's Visit to Australia 290

5. The American Naval Visit 302

6. Chief of the General Staff 308

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

BRIGADIER-GENERAL J. M. GORDON, C.B. Frontispiece WARDHOUSE, ABERDEENSHIRE 10

KILDRUMMY CASTLE, ABERDEENSHIRE 10 ALFONSO XII. 34 THE PRINCE IMPERIAL 34 DON

CARLOS 50 "TURF TISSUE," FACSIMILE OF FIRST PAGE 84 OPENING OF THE

COMMONWEALTH PARLIAMENT, 1901 120 LORD HOPETOUN 150 VISCOUNT KITCHENER 220

THE COMMONWEALTH MILITARY BOARD, 1914 254

BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION

By J. M. BULLOCH

José Maria Jacobo Rafael Ramon Francisco Gabriel del Corazon de Jesus Gordon y Prendergast--to give the

writer of this book the full name with which he was christened in Jeréz de la Frontera on March 19,

1856--belongs to an interesting, but unusual, type of the Scot abroad.

These virile venturers group themselves into four categories. Illustrating them by reference to the Gordons

alone, there was the venturer, usually a soldier of fortune, who died in the country of his adoption, such as the

well-known General Patrick Gordon, of Auchleuchries, Aberdeenshire (1635-1690), who, having spent

thirty-nine years of faithful service to Peter the Great, died and was buried at Moscow. Or one might cite John

Gordon, of Lord Byron's Gight family, who, having helped to assassinate Wallenstein in the town of Eger, in

1634, turned himself into a Dutch Jonkheer, dying at Dantzig, and being buried at Delft.

CHAPTER 5

Sometimes, especially in the case of merchants, the venturers settled down permanently in their new

fatherland, as in the case of the Gordons of Coldwells, Aberdeenshire, who are now represented solely by the

family of von Gordon-Coldwells, in Laskowitz. So rapid was the transformation of this family that when one

of them, Colonel Fabian Gordon, of the Polish cavalry, turned up in Edinburgh in 1783, in connexion with the

sale of the family heritage, he knew so little English that he had to be initiated a Freemason in Latin. To this

day there is a family in Warsaw which, ignoring our principle of primogeniture, calls itself the Marquises de

Huntly-Gordon.

Occasionally the exiles returned home, either to succeed to the family heritage, or to rescue it from ruin with

the wealth they had acquired abroad. Thus General Alexander Gordon (1669-1751) of the Russian army, the

biographer of Peter the Great, came home to succeed his father as laird of Auchintoul, Banffshire, and

managed by a legal mistake to hold it in face of forfeiture for Jacobitism. His line has long since died out, as

soldier stock is apt to do--an ironic symbol of the death-dealing art. But the descendants of another ardent

Jacobite, Robert Gordon, wine merchant, Bordeaux, who rescued the family estate of Hallhead,

Aberdeenshire, from clamant creditors, still flourish. One of them became famous in the truest spirit of Gay

Gordonism, in the person of Adam Lindsay Gordon, the beloved laureate of Australia.

The vineyard and Australia bring us to the fourth, and rarest, category, represented by the writer of this book,

namely, the family which has not only retained its Scots heritage, but also flourishes in the land of its

adoption, for Mr. Rafael Gordon is not only laird of Wardhouse, Aberdeenshire, but is a Spaniard by birth and

education, and a citizen of Madrid: and this double citizenship has been shared by his uncles Pedro Carlos

Gordon (1806-1857), Rector of Stonyhurst; and General J. M. Gordon, the writer of this book, who will long

be remembered as the pioneer of national service in Australia.

The Gordons of Wardhouse, to whom he belongs, are descended (as the curious will find set forth in detail in

the genealogical table) from a Churchman, Adam Gordon, Dean of Caithness (died 1528), younger son of the

first Earl of Huntly, and they have remained staunch to the Church of Rome to this day: that indeed was one

of the reasons for their sojourning aboard. The Dean's son George (died 1575) acquired the lands of

Beldorney, Aberdeenshire, which gradually became frittered away by his senior descendants, the seventh laird

parting with the property to the younger line in the person of Alexander Gordon, of Camdell, Banffshire, in

1703, while his sons vanished to America, where they are untraceable.

From this point the fortunes of the families increase. Alexander's son James, IX of Beldorney, bought the

ancient estate of Kildrummy in 1731, and Wardhouse came into his family through his marriage with Mary

Gordon, heiress thereof. This reinforcement of his Gordon blood was one of the deciding causes of the strong

Jacobitism of his son John, the tenth laird, who fought at Culloden, which stopped his half Russian wife,

Margaret Smyth of Methven, the great grand-daughter of General Patrick Gordon of Auchleuchries, in the act

of embroidering for Prince Charles a scarlet waistcoat, which came to the hammer at Aberdeen in 1898.

This Jacobite laird's brothers were the first to go abroad. One of them, Gregory, appears to have entered the

Dutch service; another, Charles, a priest, was educated at Ratisbon; and a third, Robert, settled at Cadiz. That

was the first association of the Wardhouse Gordons with Spain, for, though Robert died without issue, he

seems to have settled one of his nephews, Robert (son of his brother Cosmo, who had gone to Jamaica), and

another, James Arthur Gordon (who was son of the twelfth laird), at Jeréz.

But the sense of adventure was also strong on the family at home, especially on Alexander, the eleventh laird,

who was executed as a spy at Brest in 1769. A peculiarly handsome youth, who succeeded to the estates in

1760, he started life as an ensign in the 49th Foot in 1766. He narrowly escaped being run through in a brawl

at Edinburgh, and, taking a hair of the dog that had nearly bitten him, he fatally pinked a butcher in the city of

Cork in 1767. He escaped to La Rochelle, and ultimately got into touch with Lord Harcourt, our Ambassador

in Paris. Harcourt sent the reckless lad to have a look at the fortifications of Brest. He was caught in the act;

Harcourt repudiated all knowledge of him; and he was executed November 24, 1769, gay to the end, and

CHAPTER 6

attracting the eyes of every pretty girl in the town. The guillotine which did its worst is still preserved in the

arsenal at Brest, and the whole story is set forth with legal precision in the transactions of the Societé

Academique de Brest.

Poor Alexander was succeeded as laird by his younger brother Charles Edward (1750-1832), who became an

officer in the Northern Fencibles, and was not without his share of adventure, which curiously enough arose

out of his brother's regiment, the 49th. He married as his second wife Catherine Mercer, the daughter of James

Mercer, the poet, who had been a major in that regiment. In 1797, his commanding officer, Colonel John

Woodford, who had married his chief, the Duke of Gordon's, sister, bolted at Hythe with the lady, from whom

the laird of Wardhouse duly got a divorce. That did not satisfy Gordon, who thrashed his colonel with a stick

in the streets of Ayr. Of course he was court-martialled, but Woodford's uncle-in-law, Lord Adam Gordon, as

Commander-in-Chief of North Britain, smoothed over the sentence of dismissal from the Fencibles by getting

the angry husband appointed paymaster in the Royal Scots.

Gordon's eldest son John David, by his first marriage (with the grand-daughter of the Earl of Kilmarnock, who

was executed at the Tower with Lord Lovat), had wisely kept out of temptation amid the peaceful family

vineyards at Jeréz, from which he returned in 1832 to Wardhouse. But John David's half-brother stayed at

home and became Admiral Sir James Alexander Gordon (1782-1869), who as the "last of Nelson's Captains"

roused the admiration of Tom Hughes in a fine appreciation in Macmillan's Magazine. Although he had lost

his leg in the capture of the Pomone in 1812, he could stump on foot even as an old man all the way from

Westminster to Greenwich Hospital, of which he was the last Governor, and where you can see his portrait to

this day.

Although John David Gordon succeeded to Wardhouse, his family remained essentially Spanish, and his own

tastes, as his grandson, General Gordon, points out, were coloured by the character of the Peninsula. The

General himself, as his autobiography shows in every page, has had his inherited Gay Gordonism aided and

abetted by his associations with Spain and with Australia. His whole career has been full of enterprising

adventure, and, while intensely interested in big imperial problems, he has an inevitable sense of the colour

and rhythm of life as soldier, as policeman, as sportsman, as actor, as journalist. He is, in short, a perfect

example of a Gay Gordon.

BRIG.-GENERAL J. M. GORDON'S DESCENT AT A GLANCE

ALEXANDER (GORDON), 1st Earl of Huntly (died 1470). | ADAM GORDON, Dean of Caithness (died

1528). | GEORGE GORDON (died 1575). I of Beldorney, Aberdeenshire. | ALEXANDER GORDON (alive

1602). II of Beldorney. | +--------------------+------------+ | | GEORGE GORDON, ALEXANDER GORDON,

III of Beldorney. of Killyhuntly, Badenoch. | | GEORGE GORDON, JAMES GORDON (died 1642), IV of

Beldorney. of Tirriesoul and Camdell. | | JOHN GORDON (died 1694), ALEXANDER GORDON, V of

Beldorney. IX of Beldorney (buying it in 1703). | | JOHN GORDON, JAMES GORDON, VI of Beldorney, X

of Beldorney. Frittered his fortune. Bought Kildrummy. Died 1698. Got Wardhouse by marriage. | | JOHN

GORDON, JOHN GORDON (died 1760), VII of Beldorney. XI of Beldorney. | | | +-----------+-------------+ | | |

JAMES GORDON, ALEXANDER MARIA GORDON, CHARLES EDWARD GORDON Went to U.S.A.

XII of Beldorney. (1754-1832). Sold Beldorney. Lost sight of. Executed at Brest, 1769. Of Wardhouse &

Kildrummy. | +-------------------------+--+ | | JOHN DAVID GORDON. Admiral Sir J. A. GORDON.

(1774-1850) Went to Spain. One of Nelson's Captains. Inherited Wardhouse. (1782-1869.) |

+---------------------+---+ | | PEDRO CARLOS GORDON, CARLOS PEDRO GORDON, of Wardhouse, of

Wardhouse. 1806-57. 1814-97. | | | +--------------+ | | | JUAN JOSÉ GORDON, CARLOS PEDRO GORDON,

JOSÉ MARIA GORDON, of Wardhouse, 1844-76. Brig.-General, 1837-66. d.v.p. Author of this book. |

RAFAEL GORDON, of Wardhouse. Lives in Madrid. Born 1873.

Part I

CHAPTER 7

[Illustration: Wardhouse, Aberdeenshire]

[Illustration: Kildrummy Castle, Aberdeenshire]

THE CHRONICLES OF A GAY GORDON

PART I

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER I

MY SCOTS-SPANISH ORIGIN

At a period in the history of Scotland, we find that a law was passed under the provisions of which every

landowner who was a Catholic had either to renounce his adherence to his Church or to forfeit his landed

property to the Crown. This was a severe blow to Scotsmen, and history tells that practically every Catholic

laird preferred not to have his property confiscated, with the natural result that he ceased--at any rate

publicly--to take part in the outward forms of the Catholic religion. Churches, which Catholic families had

built and endowed, passed into the hands of other denominations. Catholic priests who--in devotion to their

duty--were willing to risk their lives, had to practise their devotions in secrecy.

My great grandfather, Charles Edward Gordon (1754-1832), then quite a young man, happened to be one of

those lairds who submitted to the law, preferring to remain lairds. His younger brother, James Arthur

(1759-1824), who chanced to be possessed in his own right of a certain amount of hard cash, began to think

seriously. It appeared to him that, if a law could be passed confiscating landed property unless the owners

gave up the Catholic religion, there was no reason why another law should not be passed confiscating actual

cash under similar conditions. The more he turned this over in his mind, the surer he became that at any rate

the passing of such a second law could not be deemed illogical. He was by no means the only one of the

younger sons of Scots families who thought likewise. It seemed to him that it would be wise to leave the

country--at any rate for a while.

In those days there were no Canadas, Australias and other new and beautiful countries appealing to these

adventurous spirits, but there were European countries where a field was open for their enterprise. My great

grand-uncle--youthful as he was--decided that the South of Spain, Andalusia, La Tierra de Santa Maria, would

suit him, and he removed himself and his cash to that sunny land. It is there that the oranges flourish on the

banks of the Guadalquivir. It is there that the green groves of olive trees yield their plentiful crops. It is there

that the vine brings forth that rich harvest of grapes whose succulent juice becomes the nectar of the gods in

the shape of sherry wine. He decided that white sherry wine offered the best commercial result and resolved to

devote himself to its production. Business went well with him. It was prosperous; the wine became excellent

and the drinkers many.

By this time his brother had married and the union had been blessed with two sons. When the elder was

fifteen years old, it appeared to his uncle James Arthur that it would be a good thing if his brother, the laird,

would send the boy to Spain, to be brought up there, with a view to his finally joining him in the business. He

decided, therefore, to visit his brother in Scotland, with this object in view. He did so, but the laird did not

appear to be kindly inclined to this arrangement. He was willing, however, to let his second son go to Spain,

finish his education, and then take on the wine business. This was not what the uncle wanted. He wished for

the elder son, the young laird, or for nobody at all. The matter fell through and the uncle returned to the Sunny

South.

A couple of years later on, the laird changed his mind, wrote to his brother, and offered to send his eldest son,

John David (1774-1850). A short time afterwards the young laird arrived in Spain. His father, the laird, lived

for many years, during which time--after the death of his uncle--his eldest son had become the head of one of

the most successful sherry wine firms that existed in those days in Spain. He had married in Spain and had

had a large family, who had all grown up, and had married also in that country, and it was not till he was some

sixty years of age that his father, the laird, died and he succeeded to the Scots properties of Wardhouse and

Kildrummy Castle.

The law with reference to the forfeiture of lands held by Catholics had become practically void, so that he

duly succeeded to the estates. The old laird had driven over in his coach to the nearest Catholic place of

worship and had been received back into the Church of his fathers. Afterwards he had given a great feast to

CHAPTER I 9

his friends, at which plenty of good old port was drunk to celebrate the occasion. He drove back to his home,

and on arrival at the house was found dead in the coach. So we children, when told this story, said that he had

only got to Heaven by the skin of his teeth.

His successor, my grandfather, John David, died in 1850 in Spain, and my father's elder brother, Pedro Carlos

(1806-1857), became the laird and took up his residence in the old home. He broke the record in driving the

mail coach from London to York without leaving the box seat. And later on, in Aberdeen, he drove his

four-in-hand at full gallop into Castlehill Barracks. Anyone who knows the old gateway will appreciate the

feat.

On his death in 1857, his son, my cousin, Juan José (1837-1866), succeeded to the property. He, of course,

had also been brought up in Spain, and was married to a cousin, and sister of the Conde de Mirasol, but had

no children. When he took up his residence as laird, most of his friends, naturally, were Spanish visitors

whom he amused by building a bull-fighting ring not far from the house, importing bulls from Spain and

holding amateur bull-fights on Sunday afternoons. This was a sad blow indeed to the sedate Presbyterians in

the neighbourhood. His life, however, was short, and, as he left no children, the properties passed to my

father, Carlos Pedro (1814-1897), by entail.

It is necessary to have written this short history of the family, from my great grandfather's time, to let you

know how I came to be born in Spain, and how our branch of the family was the only one of the clan which

remained Catholic in spite of the old Scots law.

I would like to tell you something now about Jeréz, the place where I was born, and where the sherry white

wine comes from. Yet all the wine is not really white. There is good brown sherry, and there is just as good

golden sherry, and there is Pedro Ximenez. If you haven't tasted them, try them as soon as you get the chance.

You'll like the last two--and very much--after dinner. I am not selling any, but you'll find plenty of firms about

Mark Lane who will be quite willing to supply you if you wish.

Well, Jeréz is a town of some sixty thousand inhabitants. Don't be afraid. This is not going to be a guidebook,

for Jeréz has not a single public building worth the slightest notice, not even a church of which it can be said

that it is really worth visiting compared with other cities, either from an architectural or an artistic point of

view. It is wanting in the beautiful and wonderful attractions which adorn many of the Andalusian towns that

surround it. In Jeréz there are no glorious edifices dating back to the occupation of the Moors (except the

Alcazar--now part cinema-show). There are no royal palaces taken from the Moors by Spanish kings. There is

no Seville Cathedral, no Giralda. There is no Alhambra as there is in Granada. There are only parts of the

ancient walls that enclosed the old city. The Moors apparently thought little of Jeréz; they evidently had not

discovered the glories of sherry white wine.

Jeréz seems to have devoted all its energies to the erection of wine-cellars, the most uninteresting buildings in

the world. A visitor, after a couple of days in Jeréz, would be tired of its uninteresting streets, badly kept

squares and absence of any places of interest or picturesque drives. Probably he would note the presence of

the stately and silent ciguenas, who make their home and build their nests upon the top of every church steeple

or tower. They are not exciting, but there they have been for years, and there they are now, and it is to be

presumed that there they will remain. Yet, Jeréz is a pleasant place to live in. Although there is only one

decent hotel in it, there are excellent private houses, full of many comforts and works of art, though their

comfort and beauty is all internal. They are mostly situated in side streets, with no attempt at any outside

architectural effects.

The citizens of Jeréz are quite content with Jeréz. They love to take their ease, and have a decided objection to

hustle. The womenkind dearly love big families: the bigger they are the better they like them. They are

devoted to their husbands and children, and live for them. The men cannot be called ambitious, but they are

perfectly satisfied with their quiet lives, and with looking after their own businesses. They love to sit in their

CHAPTER I 10

clubs and cafés, sit either inside or at tables on the pavements in the street--and talk politics, bull-fights, and

about the weather, in fact any topic which comes handy; and they are quite content, as a rule, to talk on, no

matter if they are not being listened to. This habit of general talk without listeners is also common to the

ladies. To be present at a re-union of ladies and listen to the babble of their sweet tongues is a pleasure which

a lazy man can thoroughly enjoy.

The local Press is represented principally by three or four--mostly one-sheet--newspapers, which you can read

in about three minutes. Of course their all-absorbing interest, as regards sport, is centred in the bull-fights. For

three months before the bull-fighting season begins--which is about Easter--people talk of nothing but bulls

and matadors. The relative merits of the different studs which are to supply, not only the local corridas, but

practically the tip-top ones throughout the chief cities of Spain, are discussed over and over again, while the

admirers of Joselito (since killed) are as lavish in words and gestures of praise as are those of Belmonte,

while, at the same time, the claims of other aspirants to championship as matadors are heard on every side.

Once the season begins--it lasts until towards the end of October--the whole of everybody's time is, of course,

mostly taken up in commenting upon the merits or demerits of each and every corrida. There does not appear

to be time for much else to be talked about then; unless an election comes along, and that thoroughly rouses

the people for the time being. It is of very little use for anyone to attempt to describe upon what lines elections

are run in Spain. One has to be there to try and discover what principles guide them. For instance, the last time

I was in Spain Parliamentary elections were to take place the very week after Easter Sunday. On that day the

first bull-fight of the season was to take place at Puerto Santa Maria, a small town about ten miles from Jeréz.

Of course a large number of sports, with their ladies, motored or drove over for the occasion.

There was an immense crowd at Puerto Santa Maria. In the south of Spain, especially at a bull-fight, Jack is as

good as his master, and each one has to battle through the crowd as best he can. I personally was relieved of

my gold watch, sovereign case and chain in the most perfect manner; so perfect that I had not the least idea

when or how it was taken. I must confess I felt very sad over it; not so much over my actual loss, but, I did

think it most unkind and thoughtless of my fellow townsmen to select me as their victim. The next morning I

reported my loss to the Mayor of Jeréz. He didn't appear to be much concerned about it, and he informed me

that he had already had some forty similar complaints of the loss of watches, pocket-books, etc., from visitors

to Puerto Santa Maria from Jeréz the day previous. He had had a telegram also from the Mayor of Puerto

Santa Maria to the effect that some seventy like cases had been reported to him in that town.

"So that, after all," he said, "I don't really see any particular reason why you should be hurt. I may tell you that

you are in good company. General Primo de Rivera" (who was then Captain-General Commanding the

Military District) "was with a friend when he saw a man take the latter's pocket-book from inside his coat. He

fortunately grabbed the thief before he could make off. One of the Ministers of State was successfully robbed

of some thirty pounds in notes; while a friend of yours" (mentioning a business man in Jeréz who hadn't even

been to the bull-fight, but had been collecting rents at Cadiz, and was returning through Puerto Santa Maria

home) "was surprised to find on his arrival there, that the large sum, which should have been in his pocket had

evidently passed, somehow or other, into some other fellow's hands."

This, of course, somewhat cheered me up, because, after all, there is no doubt that a common affliction makes

us very sympathetic. I asked him how he accounted for this wonderful display of sleight-of-hand.

"Oh," he said, "don't you know that the elections are on this week, and that usually, before the elections, the

party in power takes the opportunity of letting out of gaol as many criminals as it dares, hoping for and

counting on their votes? Of course, the responsibility falls on the heads of the police for making some effort to

protect our easy-going and unsuspicious visitors at such times. The job is too big for us at the time being, with

the result that these gentry make a good harvest. But yet, after all, we are not really downhearted about it,

because, after the elections are over, especially if the opposition party gets in, we round them all up and

promptly lock them up again."

CHAPTER I 11

The explanation, though quite clear, didn't seem to me to be of much help towards getting back my goods and

chattels, so I ventured to ask again whether he thought there was any chance at all of my recovering them, or

of his recovering them for me. He smiled a sweet smile, and--shaking his head, I regret to say, in a negative

way--answered that he thought there was not the slightest hope, as, from the description of the watch, chain,

etc., which I had given him, he had no doubt that they had by that time passed through the melting pot, so that

it was not even worth while to offer a reward.

The house where I was born was at that time one of the largest in the city. It is situated almost in the centre of

Jeréz, and occupies a very large block of ground, for in addition to the house itself and gardens, the

wine-cellars, the cooperage, stables and other accessory buildings attached to them, were all grouped round it.

To-day a holy order of nuns occupies it as a convent. No longer is heard the crackling of the fires and the

hammering of the iron hoops in the cooperage. No longer the teams of upstanding mules, with the music of

their brass bells, are seen leaving the cellars with their load of the succulent wine. No longer is the air filled

with that odour which is so well known to those whose lives are spent amidst the casks in which the wine is

maturing. Instead, peace and quiet reign. Sacrificing their time to the interests of charity, the holy sisters dwell

in peace.

Two recollections of some of my earliest days are somewhat vivid. I seem to remember hearing the deep

sound of a bell in the streets, looking out of the window and seeing an open cart--full of dead bodies--stopping

before the door of a house, from which one more dead body was added to the funeral pile. That was the year

of the great cholera epidemic. And again, I remember hearing bells early, very early, in the morning. We

knew what that was. It was the donkey-man coming round to sell the donkeys' milk at the front door, quite

warm and frothy.

My early school days in Spain were quite uneventful. After attending a day-school at Jeréz, kept by Don José

Rincon, I went into the Jesuit College at Puerto Real for a year. A new college was being built at Puerto Santa

Maria, to which the school was transferred, and it has been added to since. It is now one of the best colleges in

the south of Spain.

On the death of my cousin, the entailed properties--as I have said--became my father's, and the family left

Spain to take up its residence in Scotland.

CHAPTER I 12

CHAPTER II

MY SCHOOLING

The journey from Jeréz to Scotland must have been full of interest and excitement for my father. Our party

numbered about thirty of all ages, down to a couple of babies, my sister's children. My father found it more

practicable to arrange for what was then called a family train to take us through Spain and France. We

travelled during the day and got shunted at night. Sometimes we slept in the carriages; other times at hotels. In

either case, as a rule, there were frequent and--for a time--hard-fought battles among us young ones of both

sexes for choice of sleeping places.

At meal times there were often considerable scrambles. We all seemed to have the same tastes and we all

wanted the same things. My parents (who, poor dears, had to put up with us, and the Spanish nurses and

servants, who had never left their own homes before, and who, the farther we got, seemed to think that they

were never going to return to them) at last came to the conclusion that any attempts at punishing us were

without satisfactory results, and that appealing to our love for them (for it was no use appealing to our love for

each other) and our honour paid better.

My elder sisters and brothers, who were in the party, knew English. I did not. Not a word except two, and

those were "all right," which, immediately on arrival at Dover and all the way to London, I called out to every

person I met.

On reaching Charing Cross the party was to have a meal previous to starting up to Scotland. The station

restaurant manager was somewhat surprised when my father informed him that he wanted a table for about

thirty persons, which, however, he arranged for. The Spanish nurses and women-servants were dressed after

the style of their own country. They, of course, wore no hats, their hair being beautifully done with flowers at

the side (which had to be provided for them whether we wished it or not), and characteristic shawls graced

their shoulders. So that the little party at the table was quite an object of interest, not only to those others who

were dining at the time, but also to a great many ordinary passengers who practically were blocking the

entrance to the restaurant in order to obtain a glimpse of the foreigners.

All went well until the chef, with the huge sirloin of beef upon the travelling table, appeared upon the scene.

No sooner did he begin to carve and the red, juicy gravy of the much under-done beef appeared, than the

nurses rose in a body, dropped the babies and bolted through the door on to the platform. They thought they

were going to be asked to eat raw meat. Of course, they had never seen a joint in Spain. On their leaving, we,

the younger members of the family, were told to run after them and catch them if we could. So off we went,

and then began such a chase through the station as I doubt if Charing Cross had ever witnessed before or has

since. The station police and porters, not understanding what was going on, naturally started chasing and

catching us youngsters, much to the amusement and bewilderment of those looking on. Meanwhile my father

stood at the entrance of the restaurant, sad but resigned, and it was after some considerable time and after the

removal of the offending joint, that the family party was again gathered together in peace and quiet, and

shortly afterwards proceeded on the last stage of its journey and arrived safely at the old family home, which

stands amidst some of the most beautiful woods in Scotland. It is very old, but not so old as the family itself.

My father decided that it would be better for me to get a little knowledge of the English language before he

sent me to school, so that I might be able to look after myself when there. I was handed over to the care of the

head gamekeeper, Thomas Kennedy. Dear Tom died three years ago, at a very old age; rather surprising he

lived so long, as he had for years to look after me. To him, from the start, I was "Master Joseph," and "Master

Joseph" I remained until I embraced the old chap the last time I saw him before he died. It was from Tom

Kennedy that I first learnt English, mixed with the broad Aberdeen-Scots, which when combined with my

Spanish accent was practically a language of my own.

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I wonder if Britons have any idea how difficult it is, especially for one whose native tongue is of the Latin

origin, to get a thorough knowledge and grasp of their language. To my mind, the English language is not

founded on any particular rules or principles. No matter how words are spelt, they have got to be pronounced

just as the early Britons decided. There is no particular rule; if you want to spell properly, you pretty well have

to learn to spell each word on its own. This is proved by the fact that the spelling of their own language

correctly is certainly not one of the proud achievements of their own race. In the good old days before the War

it may be stated without exaggeration that one of the greatest stumbling blocks in the public

examinations--especially those for entrance into Woolwich and Sandhurst--was the qualification test in

spelling. There must be thousands of candidates still alive who well remember receiving the foolscap blue

envelopes notifying them that there was no further necessity for their presence at the examination as they had

failed to qualify in spelling. As regards the pronunciation of words as you find them written, it is quite an art

to hit them off right. Still, perseverance, patience and a good memory finally come to the rescue, and the

result is then quite gratifying.

It was from Tom Kennedy that I also learnt to shoot, fish, ride and drink, for Tom always had a little flask of

whisky to warm us up when we were sitting in the snow and waiting for the rabbits to bolt, or--what often

took a great deal longer time--waiting for the ferrets to come out. And--last but not least--he taught me to

smoke. I well remember Tom's short black pipe and his old black twist tobacco. I shall never forget the times I

had and the physical and mental agonies I endured in trying to enjoy that pipe.

So six months passed away and I was sent, with my two elder brothers, to the Oratory School in Edgware

Road, Edgbaston, Birmingham. The head of the school was the celebrated Doctor, and later on Cardinal,

Newman. Even to this day my recollections of that ascetic holy man are most vivid. At that time his name was

a household word in religious controversy. He stood far above his contemporaries, whether they were those

who agreed with or differed from his views. He was respected by all, loved by those who followed him; never

hated, but somewhat feared, by those who opposed him. I remember that one of the greatest privileges to

which the boys at our school at that time looked forward, was being selected to go and listen to Doctor

Newman playing the violin. Five or six of us were taken to his study in the evening. In mute silence, with rapt

attention, we watched the thin-featured man, whose countenance to us seemed to belong even then to a world

beyond this, and we listened to what to us seemed the sweetest sounding music.

But yet there are other recollections which were not so pleasant. The head prefect was a man of very different

physical qualities. Dear Father St. John Ambrose erred on the side of physical attainments. He was by no

means thin or ascetic. He possessed a powerful arm, which he wielded with very considerable freedom when

applying the birch in the recesses of the boot-room. I must admit that my interviews with Father St. John in

the boot-room were not infrequent. But, after all, the immediate effect soon passed away and the incident was

forgotten. Still, to my surprise, when the school accounts were rendered at the end of the year, my father was

puzzled over one item, namely, "Birches--£1 2s. 6d." (at the rate of half a crown each)! He asked me what it

meant, and I explained to him as best I could that dear Father St. John was really the responsible person in the

matter, and I had no doubt my father would get a full explanation from him if he wrote. But it brought home

to me the recollection of nine visits to the boot-room with that amiable and much-respected Father St. John. I

have within the last few months met again, after my long absence in other countries, several of my school

mates. They are all going strong and well, holding high positions in this world, and as devoted as ever to the

old school at Edgbaston. One of them is now Viscount Fitzalan, Viceroy of Ireland.

When my two elder brothers left the Oratory, which I may say was a school where the boys were allowed very

considerable liberty, my father must have thought, no doubt, when he remembered the twenty-two and

sixpence for birches, that it would be wise to send me somewhere where the rules of the college were, in his

opinion, somewhat stricter. So off I was sent, early in 1870, to dear old Beaumont College, the Jesuit school,

situated in that beautiful spot on the River Thames just where the old hostelry The Bells of Ouseley still

exists, at the foot of the range of hills which the glorious Burnham Beeches adorn. The original house was

once the home of Warren Hastings. Four delightful years of school life followed. It was a pleasure to me to

CHAPTER II 14

find that there was no extra charge for birches. The implement that was used to conserve discipline was not

made out of the pliable birch tree, but of a very solid piece of leather with some stiffening to it--I fancy of

steel--called a "ferrula." This was applied to the palm of the hand, and not to where my old friend the birch

found its billet. As the same ferrula not only lasted a long time without detriment to itself, but, on the

contrary, seemed rather to improve with age, the authorities were kind enough not to charge for its use.

No event of any particular interest, except perhaps being taught cricket by old John Lillywhite, with his very

best top hat of those days, and battles fought on the football ground against rival colleges, occurred until the

end of the third year. I happened to have come out, at the end of that year, top of my class. I had practically

won most of the prizes. It was the custom of the school that the senior boys of the upper classes were

permitted to study more advanced subjects than the school had actually laid down for the curriculum of that

particular class for the year. These extra subjects were called "honours." They were studied in voluntary time;

the examinations therein and the marks gained in no way counted towards the result of the class examinations

for the year.

These class examinations were held before the "honours" examination. A friend of mine in a higher class, who

was sitting behind me in the study room, asked me if I'd like to read an English translation of "Cæsar." I

promptly said "Yes" and borrowed it, and was soon lost in its perusal, with my elbows on my desk and my

head between my hands. Presently I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I looked up to see the prefect of studies

standing by me. He told me afterwards that he had thought, from the interest I was taking in my book, that I

was reading some naughty and forbidden novel, which he intended to confiscate, of course, and probably read.

He was surprised to find it was an old friend, "Cæsar." Being an English translation it was considered to be a

"crib." He asked me where I had got it. I couldn't give away my pal, just behind me, so I said I didn't know.

"Don't add impertinence to the fact that you've got a 'crib.' Just tell me where you did get this book," he

remarked. "I don't want to be impertinent," I said, "but I refuse to tell you." "Very well, then," he said, "go

straight to bed."

I heard nothing more on the subject till a few days afterwards, at the presentation of the prizes, the

breaking-up day, on which occasion the parents and friends of the scholars were invited to be present. At an

interval in the performance the prizes were presented. The prefect of studies would begin to read from the

printed prize list, which all the visitors were supplied with, the names of all the fortunate prize winners in

succession, from the highest to the lowest. As the name of each prize winner was called he stood up, walked

to the table at which the prizes were presented, received his, and, after making a polite bow, returned to his

seat.

When the prefect of studies reached the class to which I belonged he called out: "Grammar, first prize.

Aggregate for the year, Joseph M. Gordon." Upon which I rose from my seat, and for a moment the applause

of the audience, which was freely given to all prize winners, followed. I was on the point of moving off

towards the table in question, when, as the applause ceased, the voice of the prefect of studies once more

made itself clearly heard. It was only one word he said, but that word was "Forfeited." No more. I sat down

again. Then he continued: "First prize in Latin, J. M. G." I must admit I didn't know what to do, but I stood up

all right again. The audience didn't quite appear to understand what was going on, but the prefect of studies

gave them no time to commence any further applause, for that one word, "Forfeited," came quickly out of his

mouth. Down again I sat. However, I immediately made up my mind, though, of course, not knowing how

many prizes I had won, to stand up every time and sit down as soon as that old word "Forfeited" came along,

which actually happened about four times.

I often wonder now how I really did look on that celebrated occasion. But I remember making up my mind

there and then that I would remain in that school for one year more, but no more, even if I was forced to leave

the country, and to win every prize I could that next year, and make sure, as the Irishman says, that they

would not be "forfeited." So I remained another year. I was fortunate enough to win the prizes--I even won the

silver medal, special prize for religion--and it was a proud day for me when I got them safely into my bag,

CHAPTER II 15